The customer always has the right to be bludgeoned with a verbal kosh

I had a mate staying this weekend and hungover on Sunday we had an odd urge to go and check out some art. This worked out well, as I was sure that galeries and the likes were free on the first sunday of every month. Something they call “les dimanches de patrimoine”. Anyway, my mate had heard tell of some Matisse, Rembrandt and possibly Jean Michel Jarre on offer so we sauntered down to the local mairie which has a couple of galleries. The conversation waiting for me inside proved to be a very sobering affair. It went something like this (bearing in mind that French is normally a lot more formal and polite between strangers than English):

Me : “Hello, good day Madam.”
Museum “receptionist” : “Hello, is it to see the exhibition?”
“Yes, please. Am I right in thinking galeries are still free on the first Sunday of every month?”
“I’m sorry, I thought that-”
“Yes, I understand. How long has-”
“Since when?”
“I understand you perfectly well. How long has it been?”
It was all I could do to break eye contact and keep my feet on the floor. I’m a fairly reasonable person, but on occasion it seems that world is conspiring to make me do a Michael Douglas.

I went in with a relaxed, very manageable, slight hangover, but by the time this little rottweiler of a skank whore had finished her lyrical bludgeoning, I was primed for the kill. We did do one of the galeries, but I found myself half looking at depressing dutch landscapes and mainly the urge to go back and ask her why, if she hated mankind so very much, she insisted on inflicting her vile self on the world instead of just OD’ing on her own sense of superiority. It’s alright though. I have my revenge sussed.

1 phone call, every Sunday, at the same time every week, for the rest of her working life:

“Hello, I need some information please. I was just wondering, I’ve heard about these “journées du patrimoine”…..”

One Response

  1. Groover says:

    Maybe she hates the work of Jean Michel Jarre due to an innate love of the film Chariots of Fire and the music of Vangelis. Certainly, that is my excuse.

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